


Cold Sheets

by orphan_account



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: FrostIron - Freeform, M/M, fairytale AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-28
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-11-19 17:29:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/575800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For all of his life, Loki had been raised Asgardian. But when a fateful night proves him wrong and strips him of his family and kingdom, he finds himself in dire enough straits to team up with a band of not-so-desirables to save what remains.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. PROLOGUE

**Author's Note:**

> She may not see this, but a BIG thank you to my wonderful friend Brittney for helping me give a name to this thing.

Thor ran as fast as his small legs would carry him down the narrow dirt path, ignoring the guards and serfs who bowed to the young Prince as he passed by them. Sweat beaded and dripped down his face, clearing tracks in the dark dust that covered his skin and clothes. His mother stood near the gates, dressed in her finest green silks and jewels. At the sight of her son, a complete foil to her appearance, she clicked her tongue and sighed, using her handkerchief and a light dab of spit to try and clean his cheeks. 

“Come now,” she scolded. “How does a boy like you manage to find enough dirt in the world?” She held his chin and turned his head from one side to the other, inspecting what work she could do to clean her child, shaking her head and pursing her lips. But before she could say anymore the wooden gates rose, and she straightened, unable to hide the beaming smile on her face. Other wives and children were gathered behind her, necks craning to find their husbands and brothers. 

Odin led his men inside the gates, his one good eye meeting his wife’s gaze, and he smiled. Frigga was immediately reduced to tears and his son was standing tall and proud, albeit dirty, with his shoulders held back and his chin high in the air. He carefully slid down from his horse, cradling a satchel in his arms, and embraced his wife. She was shaking against him as she pressed kisses to his mouth, cheeks, eyes, hiccupping with sobs all the while. 

“I must speak with you at once,” he whispered in her ear as he embraced her once again, careful to bow his back so that his precious cargo was not crushed between them. Frigga pulled back to look at him, her eyes dropping to the parcel, and then back up. She nodded and turned to Thor, taking her son’s grimy hand and muttering to him about a private reunion with his father. Odin cleared his throat and addressed the crowd. Many women and children were crying, either with relief or despair over the bodies that had been rolled into the fortified city, covered in fur-lined blankets with their swords lying beside them, blades broken and chipped. Without preamble he promised them their time to mourn, for the next night was a feast to celebrate. At last, the Jotuns had been destroyed!

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

Odin locked the door behind them, taking a deep breath before turning to face his family. The curious ox skin satchel was still tucked into the crook of his arm, and Thor wondered for a moment if it was actually _moving_ before his father wrapped his other large arm around it securely. “What I am about to show you stays within this room.” he said darkly, and Thor’s heart began to beat erratically. He knew that tone. He gulped and nodded without hesitation, though Frigga stared at him with narrowed eyes and pursed her painted lips. Finally, realizing that he was not going to continue without her promise of silence, she nodded her head once. Odin sighed, letting out his breath in one large sigh. He reached one hand over and carefully lifted the flap, pulling out a slight babe from the confines of the folds of leather, carefully wrapped in thick cotton swaddling. Its shiny blue skin reflected the light like glass, black whorls carving beautiful patterns into its skin. A blanket the soft periwinkle of fresh snow was tucked around him. Thor gasped and stepped closer to touch him, one hand outstretched, but Odin quickly moved back.

“Don’t touch him,” he said a little too harshly. Thor flinched and retreated. “He’s Jotun.”

“You stole a Jotun child?!” Frigga gasped, recoiling from the sight. One hand flew to cover her gaping mouth. Tears brimmed in her eyes. “And what of the parents? Do they mourn, or are they even aware of what has become of him?”

“He was left to die in the gutter,” Odin said quickly. “He’s a runt, a genetic failure. If I hadn’t taken him when I found him, it would have been no better than if I had killed him myself.”

“Even so, you promised us that they were no more. What will the people think when they see this child?”

“They will wonder how you kept yourself so beautiful during your pregnancy.” he said gravely. “Look, even now his skin color fades.”

Thor craned his neck to see that indeed, as his father said, the bluish tint to the babe’s skin was fading to a more humanesque peach. 

“He will be raised as an Asgardian prince, same as our own son.”

“People will _talk_ ,” Frigga argued. Odin rested the child on the nearby sofa, careful to keep his head supported, before facing his wife. “He will not look a thing like either of us. The people will accuse me of infidelity!”

Thor tuned out the sounds of his parents arguing, instead kneeling beside the sleeping child. He whimpered, as if sensing the tension within the room, and his eyes opened. Thor couldn’t help the laughter as it burst from the pit of his stomach, for when the babe’s eyes had opened, they’d been crossed to stare at each other over the bridge of his nose! With a blink they came into focus, and he stared around the room curiously, letting out infantile squeaks of delight at whatever he fancied. Thor grinned and touched him with a tentative finger, soon caught in a strong grip by a pudgy pink hand. His touch was warm, and very human-like. Thor managed to pry his finger from the tiny person’s grip, and that was quite distressing. As the cub began to wail he picked him up, careful to cradle his head as his father had, and once again offered him the desired finger. And immediately, despite the dirt crusted underneath his fingernail, it went straight into the tiny, toothless mouth. Thor laughed again, turning to face his parents after noticing their silence. His mother and father both looked shocked at his behavior.

“I love him.” he simply responded, and those simple words seemed to settle the matter. Frigga sighed, brushing a golden curl from her face. 

“I guess I can form some story as to how I birthed the child.” she said, and gently pried him from Thor’s arms. “Come now, Thor, you’re dirty, and you’ll make him sick. Wash yourself and then you can hold your brother.”

Thor bolted from the room, leaving the door wide open. Odin put an arm around his wife, who leaned against him and stared down at her child. “Loki,” she said. “That is what I will name him.”

“A fine name it is,” Odin said, and kissed his wife’s temple. “Now, leave him to the maids for the evening. We have a victory to celebrate.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

Deep in the Jotun lands Farbauti was hiding with her surviving warriors, licking her own wounds and cursing all of Asgard’s warriors; they had destroyed her perfect kingdom, and she was going to kill that bastard King if it meant the death of her as well. She looked up as one of her generals approached her, carrying a bloody sword in his hand. The tip of it dragged along the ground, carving an inch deep channel in the frozen dirt. Without any preamble he raised the blade above his head and brought it down towards her. Farbauti scoffed and reached up a hand to grasp the blade. It stopped, not even breaking her hard, icy skin. The man’s crimson eyes widened in fear.

“You dare to kill your Queen?” she asked in a voice barely above a whisper. Ice traveled down the blade, freezing his hand to the hilt. And when the weapon shattered, so did it, and he screamed as blood dripped from the neat cut where his appendage used to hang. The other warriors around began to speak to each other in hushed tones, which immediately ceased when she screamed at them. It was a barbaric and angry wail, but it frightened them like she’d needed. “Anyone else?” The clearing remained silent, her men waiting for her words. Good, that was how she liked it.

“We will retreat, for now, and our forces will grow. Mourn your brethren, for soon we will take Asgard for our own.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

Loki was deeply focused on the book in front of him, the long-dead magical language forming beautiful spells he easily memorized and tucked away inside his head. He was intently studious, and so his mind did not register the frantic shouting of his name until something hard collided with his skull, bursting cool and wet on the back of his neck and rightly knocking him from his perch on the low-hanging branch of an oak tree. He landed hard on his back, the breath violently ripped from his lungs. His vision swam. Thor's murky visage came into view, shaking him by the shoulders. Loki wheezed until the air found its way back into his chest. He sat up and reached a shaky hand to his wet hair, pulling back a squishy piece of fruit flesh. _Apple_ , he noted sourly. Beyond Thor's head Fandral and Volstagg were guffawing loudly. Hogan stared on with less of a forlorn expression than usual, and Sif was biting her lip and failing to hide her amusement. Loki glowered dangerously at his brother, who in return released him. 

"You would be wise in choosing better companions, brother." he hissed as he stood, retrieving his book from where it had landed in the black soil beneath the tall tree. Thor only laughed in response and stood. Loki knew his brother would not take his advice. Even as close as they were, Thor was seventeen, almost a man, and the five years that separated them were becoming more apparent each day. 

"My friends are fine people, Loki." Thor argued. Fandral laughed loudly, slapping a hand on the Golden Prince's broad shoulders.

"Indeed." he agreed. "And perhaps if you would take your nose from those dusty old books and actually talk to people, you'd have friends to defend your honor as well." Fandral must have thought himself a comedian, which was insulting enough, but the true cut was when Thor joined the chorus of laughter. Loki took a deep breath and pointed a slim finger at his offender. Just the motion of it halted their mirth. Thor even stood away from his friend's grasp.

"I curse you to fire, a burning betwixt your legs like the flames of Hell itself! It will leave you crying for mercy!" Even as Fandral tried to look unaffected by his words, Loki could see the worry in his eyes. With a shake of his fingers he added "ZIS BOOM BAH!" and dashed away to the sound of the young men cursing at him and Thor's weak attempts to try and quiet them down. So much for brotherly love. 

Loki hid in the castle library, tucked away inside the velvet curtains of a window. It was by the light of his own magic that he read, until the sun began to sink and Thor stormed into the room and forcibly dragged him from the sill by the silk collar of his tunic. Loki landed on his bruised arm, clutching his book protectively. Thor pinned him down, straddling him so he wouldn't fight.

"Fix it!" he roared, shaking him, and Loki squirmed to trying and get out of his grasp, magic dripping from his fingers though he wouldn’t dare hex him.

"No!" he shouted at him, kicking his legs uselessly at the air behind his brother. "He struck me, and yet is _him_ you defend?"

"T'was a joke, brother! He never meant to hit you!"

"But he did, and you didn't even bat an eye!" With those words Loki vanished. Thor scrambled to his feet, turning to find him on the other side of the room, one hand outstretched towards him. "If you attack me again, brother, I will have no qualms about doing the same to you!" 

"Boys!" Frigga shut the library door behind her and pinned her sons beneath a disappointed scowl. Both of them blanched and lowered their eyes to their shoes. "The servants tell me you have been running around screaming for your brother. And Fandral's mother has just spoken with me about _you_ casting a spell on him." she scolded harshly. "She says he has Chlamydia."

At that both boys snorted rather uncouthly with laughter, hiding behinds their hands when Frigga scowled. 

"Loki, you know you are not allowed to use your magic on people like that." she continued.

"He threw an apple at me and knocked me out of a tree! I could have snapped my neck, no thanks from Thor."

"He did _what_?" 

"He was joking, mother! That Loki fell was an accident."

"Still you found amusement." Loki muttered beneath his breath, earning a poisonous look from his mother. Frigga sighed, rubbing her temples and collapsing into a plush velvet reading chair by the hearth. 

"What am I to do with you?" she sighed. "You're brothers, whether you like it or not, and that means you must look out for each other. Thor, the next time someone hits your brother, you stand up for him."

"I don't need his help." Loki snapped before he could stop himself. "My magic is good enough."

"I do not want to hear another instance of you bewitching anyone, nor of you laughing at your brother instead of helping him. It is the last time I will speak on the matter, I _hope_." She looked at each boy on turn before leaving the library. Loki could feel his brother's gaze on him as he retreated to his window, curling up in the drapes.

"Brother?" Thor's voice was thick and muted from the velvet wrapped around him. "I am sorry for laughing."

"You're sorry you got caught." Loki corrected. He heard Thor's low grunt of disapproval, and suddenly he was wrenched from his curled position on the sill and his book fell from his grasp. Thor swung him up onto a shoulder, which painfully dug into his midsection. "Release me you ogre!" Loki shouted as Thor began a jig to his own wailing baritone.


	2. A Beloved Queen Dies

Loki watched the rain patter against the window, rivulets of water falling down the glass. His mother had once told him that the reason it rained on the day of a funeral was because the angels were crying, mourning the passing of a kind person. It made so much sense, then, as he looked out beyond the walls of the castle. Dirt was being shoveled into Frigga’s grave, where her polished wooden coffin would be buried forever, leaving her body to rot. Loki would never see his mother again, and the thought pulled heavily on his heart. He collapsed into the cushioned sofa on the far side of the room, curling his knees to his chest and ducking his head into the darkness created by his body. He didn’t look up when the door opened and heavy footsteps crossed the room to him.

“Brother.” Thor said softly, one large warm hand coming to rest on his shoulder. “Please, eat.”

“I’m not hungry.” he snapped, but sorrow had drained his conviction and it came out of his mouth pitiful and broken. He felt the cushion sink as his brother sat next to him and put an arm around him. He was drawn towards his brother, his head resting in the crook of his neck. He could hear his pulse, could feel the way he swallowed his sobs and trembled. Loki and Thor cried silently together in that room, until they both admitted their exhaustion and awkwardly parted for bed.

The next morning the sky was overcast, naught but dark grey clouds and heavy white fog. When Loki appeared to the dining room for breakfast—surprisingly famished, until he remembered his sorrowful fasting the day earlier—a servant quickly grabbed him, apologized for it, and told him he was wanted in the throne room. After retrieved an apple from the table to eat, he made his way through the fire-lit stone hallways until he reached the throne room. A maid took the fruit core from him as his arrival was announced and he entered the room. Thor and his friends, all clad in black silks and leathers, stood to one side of the throne. But what Loki’s gaze settled on as he crossed the room and bowed to her before joining his brother was the surprising guest in the middle of the court

The woman stood before the King, smiling at him demurely, bright hazel-green eyes peeking at him from underneath dark lashes that cast light shadows across her cheeks. Fandral began to whisper rather lewd suggestions in Thor's ear, but the blond sent a sharp elbow into his rubs and successfully silenced him. Odin still wore his mourning robes, but Loki was not blind to the desire in his Father's gaze as he greeted the young woman. He took her delicately pale hand in his roughened one and placed a kiss upon her smooth knuckles.

"May I have the honor of your name?" he asked her. The lady blushed a deep pink across her cheek bones and the bridge of her nose. Her dark curls only emphasized the pale cream of her skin.

"Farbauti." she answered coolly, and her eyes flickered toward him for just a moment, a moment that Loki did not miss and unnerved him greatly. There was evil and mischief in her eyes. Loki, without so much as another word, left the room, taking care to slam the heavy iron-wrought wooden doors. He hissed at a maid begging him to return to the room. Instead Loki returned to his bedroom, making sure to bolt the door so that Thor could not throw it open and demand he return and apologize to the witch who had charmed their father. It turned out to be a very wise decision, as not long after his dramatic departure the door handle began to shake, and then a heavy fist pounded against the gilded wood.

“Open this door, Loki!” Thor bellowed from the hallway. He moved to stand before the door, his own voice calm and quiet.

“No.”

“If you do not—”

“What will you do? Stand before my door and force me to starve? Because I can assure you that last part will happen if he marries her.” he hissed, feeling satisfaction at his brother’s silence on the other side.

“No one spoke of marriage.”

“Just because it was not spoken does not mean it isn’t there. Did you even see the way he looked at her?”

“Loki, you must apologize to her.” Thor argued, though it was a futile effort, and Loki knew Thor knew it.

“I will not speak to that _harlot_.” he spat. “You may as well start digging another grave, Thor, because I would rather _die_ than claim that woman as my mother.”

*

Thor clenched his hands and his molars were pressed so hard together he was sure he’d crack his teeth. Only Sif’s calming hand on his bicep eased his tension.

“Come,” she said quietly, no doubt trying to keep her words where Loki could not hear them. “We must return to your father. Tell them he was feeling sick.” she added, tugging at his arm. He looked from her to his brother’s door once more, and allowed her to lead him down the hall, her hand tucked into his elbow. 

“I fear my brother grows more rebellious every day.” he told her.

“You have just lost your mother. Seeing your father with another woman, intentions or not, he is hurting. He must have misread Lady Farbauti’s actions or the way your father looked at her. He will heal, in time.”

“I hope you are right.” Thor placed his hand over hers.

 

Back within the throne room Odin looked more than displeased with his son's behavior, speaking in hushed, reassuring tones with Lady Farbauti. Sif removed herself from Thor's side and retreated to the sidelines to whisper with the warriors.

"It seems my brother had suddenly felt ill and did not wish to disturb you, Milady." Thor lied with a low bow. "I hope you are not offended by his sudden departure."

"Not at all." she replied sweetly. She casually brushed an inky curl from her face, her eyes watching him predatorily. He felt a slight unease before her, dismissing the thought as soon as it entered his mind. "My King, your sons are but babes; how old must you be?" she asked him, stroking a surprisingly cold hand down his cheek. Thor suppressed a shiver, though he could not hide the goose flesh rising upon his skin.

"Twenty and one." he replied, backing away from her slowly. He could somewhat see why Loki did not like this woman. She seemed dangerous, like a snake weaving, ready to attack at the slightest of movements. She had the demeanor as someone who would kill you with a smile. Suddenly he didn't like the idea of this woman in the castle, either. "I dislike to be rude to a woman, Lady Farbauti, but I should attend to my brother. Make sure he does not require my assistance."

"What a wonderful child." she mused. "I should not like to keep you much longer from your brother."

"You may go, Thor." Odin consented, looking more than anxious to be left alone with his new love interest. The young Prince and his friends departed. Hogan was the first to speak.

"You look disturbed." he said evenly. 

"I fear Loki's suspicions of that woman may be correct. When she touched me…" Thor reached up, fingers brushing across his cheek much in the same way hers had. "I cannot convince my father against marrying her, not when he so desperately craves a partner. But we will be keeping an eye on her."

"By 'we,' do you mean us as well?" Fandral asked. The nervous tone of the Prince had him fingering the hilt of his sword. Thor paused to turn and face his friends. With Loki's suspicion, they had simply dismissed it. He wondered why they worried only now. 

"Of course. I am your friend, and my father your King."

"Like you even needed to ask." Volstagg muttered beneath his breath, despite the fact that his deep baritone was nearly impossible to mute. Fandral shot him an annoyed scowl.

"I will speak to my brother about this woman. Sif, I need you to find out what you can, even rumors will suffice."

"Who should I ask?"

"Men and women at the pub. Travelers, merchants. anyone who has been outside our walls." Thor ran a nervous hand through his golden hair. "Perhaps we may able to ease my brother's trouble."

 

*

Loki was not surprised to hear the next morning that Odin wished to wed Farbauti, the maiden beaming proudly by his side. Thor had warned him about his behavior—even more about holding his famous silver tongue—and so he entered the dining room for breakfast the next morning with his mouth silent. The Lady, surprisingly, sat directly beside her husband-to-be, blushing as she cut into her morning meal. Thor and Loki exchanged wary glances; Frigga had always dined earlier than her family, up and ready and doing her queenly duties before any of her men had opened their eyes. Their chairs were on the other side of the table. Odin waved to them to move their chairs and sit down, mouth full of food. Once again, an unsettling change from their usual routine.

"I thought that we should eat together like my family did." Farbauti explained. Loki bit the inside of his cheeks to keep his snarky comments to himself. But when Thor moved to grab the chairs, he stopped him.

"Allow me, brother." he said. Thor caught the tone in his voice, but said nothing. Loki flicked his fingers toward the chairs. He relished in the truly horrified expression on the Lady's face as they floated toward her, following the movement of the sorcerer's hand. Thor's expression was stiff as he grabbed their backs and pushed them down onto the floor. His interference broke the spell.

"Ah. Oh. How, uhm, how charming." she stammered, hands gripping the arms of her chairs tightly, enough to bleach the blood from her knuckles. Loki bowed to her and sat as a manservant brought two plates of food for the Princes.

"Loki loves to show off." Odin said with a pointed look at his younger son. "He's quite proud of his magical abilities."

"He should be. To use a spell like the without having to utter a word. He certainly has the heart for it." Farbauti was looking at him over the rim of her cup, eyes narrowed. Loki kept his face void of any emotion. He was sure everyone could feel the tension between them as breakfast continued in silence.

*

Farbauti stood before the mirror, her own beautiful reflection scowling back at her with pouty red lips and deep crimson eyes. She stroked it's glassy, ice-cold surface. "Mirror, mirror, on the wall." she chanted slowly, standing close enough that her breath swept across the surface and spread a cool, condensing fog. "Who is the fairest of them all?"

Slowly within the mirror the spirit took shape. It appeared to the Queen as a large black shadow with a pointed head, much like a hood, and glowing red eyes. The Queen stroked it lovingly. 

“ _Within all the lands inside my view, there be not man, child, or woman to surpass you._ ” he said to her. Farbauti smiled, her grin nearly splitting her face in half. She giggled into her hand like a virgin maid and caressed the polished gold frame of the mirror.

“My Lady,” came the voice of her maid-in-waiting, muffled through the oak door. “The wedding is about to begin.”

“I am coming.” she said, pressing her lips to the mirror before pulling away. Her own reflection stared back at her wantonly as she turned away from her most precious treasure to walk once more down the wedding aisle.


	3. To Lose Everything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably my longest chapter so far. And also my favorite.

Loki stood by his father during the wedding only because he was threatened with his magic being taken from him, scowling all the while at the woman his father had known for only three days. She wore Frigga’s wedding dress, as if to spit on him while he lay on the ground bleeding, and she winked at him whenever their eyes met over his father’s shoulder. Flushing deeply, Loki turned away to lock his gaze into a burning candle near the altar. The fire flickered and danced in the changing pressures of air, and with a quick exhale he extinguished it. No use of it being happy while he moped like a child as his father married some harlot from he knew not where.

The ceremony and reception were seemingly rushed, vows hardly exchanged and Loki barely had tasted his wine when Odin and Farbauti disappeared from the view of their guests and a squire had to announce the end of their gaiety; naturally, the party continued without them. Thor leaned over and whispered to Fandral, whose busy hands were expertly finding their way up the skirts of the drunken bridesmaid sitting on his knee. His playful laugh turned serious, surprising even Loki. But, like his father had, Loki excused himself rather early from the revelry and retreated to his beloved library, the old books covered in a light coating of dust from neglect. He hadn't returned since Frigga's burial, her fresh grave in perfect view from lattice window. His spell book remained where he had let it fall from his hands when Thor had brought him the news. He'd been insulted, utterly enraged. His own mother had been lying on her deathbed, and no one had called him. His healing spells could have saved her life, preventing this _entire_ occasion! He swept the book from the floor, clutching the cool leather in his hands. It was stiff from the cold, dust smeared into the pages. Loki heard the door open behind him, needing not to look back to know who it was.

*  
"My lady is fairest, this is true." he responded, "but there exists in this world one who will surpass you."

"What?!" She gripped the frame of the mirror, snarling at the phantom beneath the surface of the glass. "It can't be! Who could be more beautiful than _I_?"

"A child in these lands, of your blood and bone, will rise come he of age, and take your throne."

“Darling?” Odin asked from behind her. Apparently ignorant to her earlier conversation, he wrapped his arms around her waist, nuzzling her neck. Farbauti glowered at their reflection in the mirror, suppressing disgusted shudders as she crossed her arms over her stomach. “Perhaps we should get to bed.”

“Indeed.” she agreed, turning in his arms and smiling. She continued to smile at him as she pulled her hand from her sleeve and shoved her hidden dagger right between his ribs. Odin’s face immediately drained of any color, instead turning a pasty green around his jaw, as he looked down at the red spreading across the front of his tunic. He looked up again, his mouth opening as if to speak. All that came out was a choked gurgle and a thick, bubbling trail of blood. Farbauti smiled as she wrenched the blade from his body; Odin fell to the floor, his breath only drawing more blood into his lungs. She smiled lovingly at her husband, kneeling beside him to wrap her beautifully thin fingers around his throat.

“I kill you,” she hissed. “In the same way you murdered my husband, Laufey, with a blade in your lung and the words of your enemy the last thing you hear.”

With one final wet gasp, Odin died.

*

"I could have saved her." he hissed as his brother stepped closer. "My magic could have healed her. And instead you keep her illness a secret from me?"

"Loki, there was nothing you could have done, and Father knew it. You would have killed yourself trying to help her." he said carefully. Loki turned to glare at him.

"And how would you know that?" he growled. "How could you or Father understand my magical capabilities when you have never seen them for yourself in the first place?!"

"Do not raise your voice to me, brother!" Thor bellowed. "We did it to protect you!"

"I am in no need of—!"

Both brothers ducked as a far wall collapsed, and Loki dropped to a roll to avoid being crushed by the dislodged wrought-iron chandelier. Its heavy round frame fell to the floor in a shower of sparks and candle wax. Green fire dripped from his fingers like water as the Jotun charged at them, ice freezing over his fingers into five sharp claws. Thor drew Mjolnir from his belt and threw it before his brother had a chance to attack. The Jotun's head caved in, his head crunching as bone collapsed and gore leaked from its shattered frame, and it flew clean off his shoulders. The body dropped with a heavy thump to the floor, dark blood seeping from his neck. Screams erupted from the halls outside, and with panicked expressions the Princes rushed from the library, weapons clutched tightly. The Frost Giants were stretched down the expanse of the hallway, black bodies frostbitten in their grips. The nearest beast saw them, dropping the dead woman from his hands and charging them with a cry. Loki whispered his spell, the fire in his hands growing brighter, hotter, and he shot it toward him. The fire enveloped his entire body, scorching him and burning him. He screamed until he died, a flaming, bloody mess. Loki turned triumphantly to his brother, a bit discouraged to see that he was otherwise preoccupied. Pretending he didn't care, Loki turned and killed yet another, leaving several charred corpses littering the corridor, their singed flesh smelling something akin to rotten mead and ice. Loki examined the bodies, his stomach turning as he recognized more than a few faces. Even the woman who had been with Fandral, her pale skin turned black as tar, her jaw locked into a perpetual scream of pain and horror, the tears from her eyes frozen. No one had expected the Giants to attack, not today, of all days.

"Father." Loki gasped, and spun on his heel at the sound of approaching footsteps. Fandral and Sif held out their hands to the people behind them, urging them not to take another step. Sif's eyes widened, her face turned pale.

"Behind you!" she shrieked, but Loki had barely registered the Jotun's presence when the large, cold hand wrapped around him, thrusting him against the wall. The cold was shocking, almost painful, and Loki knew he was not going to live through the Giant's touch. 

Except that he was actually getting used to it; the cold no longer burned him. He opened an eye to see that his hand—his very own hand that many times had held his brother's, his mother's—was the very same blue as the confused creature clutching him. He dared a look at Thor, at his older brother who would definitely have an explanation for why this had happened to him. He looked like he had been defeated, his shoulders hunched. At meeting his brother's eyes, Thor lowered his head. 

And then Sif was grabbing his arm, screaming and trying to pull him away from the scene. More Jotuns were coming, more than he could handle on his own. Thor didn't move until Loki raised his arm, chanting, and suddenly Thor was propelled backward, stumbling to catch his balance and fetching up against Fandral, who wrapped a supportive arm around his brother. Thor looked back, eyes panicked. He screamed and roared in protest, but Sif and Fandral had enough strength between them to force their prince away from the monsters. Loki held his hands up to the giant clutching him like a doll, his face seemingly frozen in shock. His palms faced the creature.

“I surrender.” he said in a voice he wished was steadier.

*

Farbauti sat upon the throne, legs cascading over one arm of the chair. In one hand she held Odin by his collar, and Loki felt sick to see the large red stain on his chest like a grotesquely blooming rose, his skin pale and placid. In the other hand she held the knife she'd used to kill him, licking the Asgardian's blood from the silver blade. She was more than tickled as her men brought the younger son into her throne room, his skin as azure as hers. At the sight of her his glowing crimson eyes burned, narrowing as his lips pulled themselves away from his teeth in a grimace of pure rage. He was shoved down to kneeling before her. Farbauti sat a little while and enjoyed the look of pain on the child’s blue face.

“You have no idea.” she said at last, her voice echoing around the room to further hammer her words inside the man’s head. “You look shocked to find that you are of Jotun blood. Had your father never told you?”

She swung her legs around and placed her feet onto the floor. The stones beneath froze over and cracked, moving ever closer to the defeated Prince. She dragged with her his father’s corpse, humming all the while. She dropped Odin before his son, relishing his gasp of surprise, watching as the tears welled in his eyes and fell down his cheeks. 

“Poor, poor baby.” she cooed, kneeling next to him. She gingerly wiped away his tears and pushed his hair back from his face. His skin felt cool beneath her mouth as she kissed his temple. He flinched at every touch, as if she might as well have stabbed him like his father. “Your father is dead, your brother has abandoned you, and you have turned out to be of the flesh and blood you were always taught to hate.”

Farbauti was not stupid, and she knew it was only the guard holding his chains—perolium shackles with anti-magic runes carved into the silvery metal—and his own grief that kept the young sorcerer from outright killing her. That knowledge gave her the confidence to embrace the boy, running her hand through his silky black hair. 

“The only thing that could make it worse,” she continued softly, lowering her mouth so that it was directly by his ear, “is knowing that the woman who killed your supposed father, is also the woman who gave birth to you.”

His sharp intake of breath and his violent jerking to remove himself from her arms made her laugh, and she allowed him to wrench himself away as she stood, spinning and dancing as he sat on the floor, mind probably broken to pieces. 

*

**FIFTEEN YEARS LATER**

Farbauti stared mournfully at her reflection in the mirror, touching a finger to the corner of her eye, where deep crow’s feet were etched into her face. Even as a Jotun, she was not immune to the passage of time. She snarled like an animal, throwing her fist against the glass surface even though she knew very well its glossy surface would not give underneath her strength. She left her room and spoke harshly to her nearest guard, his face set to be void of any emotion despite the fear in his eyes.

“Bring me a girl!” she shrieked, her finger pointed at him, crooked like a crow’s talon. “Bring her to me, I don’t care who she is!” 

The man bowed to her and rushed through the corridor. In just the few minutes it took for her to return to her room and retrieve her brown leather satchel from underneath her bed she heard the screaming, the desperate begging, a mother pleading to be taken in her daughter’s place. Silly woman she was, Farbauti mused as she unrolled the thick material and pulled a glass knife from its pouch, the transparent blade as blue as her true Jotun skin. The child was brought in quickly, touched only by the threat of the sharp blade at the end of his spear. She was crying, poor thing, ugly in the face but young in years. Only that final part mattered. Despite the large knife in her hand, whose shimmering edges the girl could not take her watery eyes away from, Farbauti smiled at her prey and reached up a hand to stroke her hair, her cheek. The child flinched at the first touch, her skin cold but her magic dimming its harsh bite. She clicked her tongue and her body trembled with pent whimpers.

“Shh shh shh, darling.” she murmured. “You needn’t be afraid.” Her fingers now reached her neck, and she felt beneath her touch the fluttering pulse, like a hummingbird’s. Her hand drifted lower, until her fingers spread out over that pounding heart, the nervous beating like a jig on a darbuka. She smiled, her magic seeping into the child, forcing her to her knees, to lie on her back, her limbs frozen and useless to her. She tossed her head back and screamed, crying, begging for someone to help her. Farbauti grinned and turned to open her window, where her cries would echo across the village. She hoped her parents heard their precious daughter screaming as she carved into her chest, pulling her still throbbing heart from her body, and devouring it like an animal before the wide, horrified eyes of the child. She licked the blood from her lips, watching it pool from her chest and onto the floor. At her cry the guard stepped in, eyes scouring the floor, never looking up at the grotesque sight of their Queen. “Get rid of this meat sack. The usual way, of course.” 

*

Loki's eyes traced the shape of the rune carved into his handcuffs for the millionth time. He was curled in the window of the high bedroom tower Farbauti had confined him to, his magic stripped from him and his family dead. It had been almost fifteen cold, lonely years since Loki had seen his father’s corpse and his brother thrust away to save his life; Loki doubted Thor believed in his powers enough to think him still alive.

He jumped at the sound of someone beginning to unlock the at least twenty bolts that had been nailed into the wood of his door. He could smell the hot broth already, and his stomach grumbled expectantly. When the door finally opened, a giant Loki had never seen before was waiting. He stood, ready to accept his meal, but instead was met with a knife. Only the memory of old fighting instincts helped him dodge it, but the Jotun grabbed him and threw him against the wall. His head connected with the cold stone with a loud crack, and the man's head swam; his vision blurred and swirled as he felt himself lifted by his shirt and dragged to the bed. Something thick and warm ran down his neck and gluing the back of his shirt to his skin. He was placed on his back, and just as the world became clear Loki saw in front of his face that glimmering knife. He squirmed and fought, kicking his legs in vain to try and dislodge his attacker. A large cold hand wrapped slowly around his neck, and Loki felt the chill beginning to course through his veins. His skin felt tight as it changed, the effect of living in a more human environment slowly melting away to reveal his true parentage. Loki had known since that fateful day what he truly was; but this giant seemed surprised, releasing him and dropping his knife from the shock. Loki took advantage of this, rolling himself off the bed and into a crouch. He jumped up and shot toward the door, knocking it away inadvertently with his shoulder. A sharp pained radiated down his arm, but he kept running. Farbauti had such faith in her rather amateurish magicks that Loki managed to avoid the few guards actually patrolling the corridors. He ducked behind a heavy drape of dark velvet just as he heard the sound of clinking armor.

"Damned brat." spat a Jotun man. "How could you have lost him? All you had to do was rip his heart out!"

"He...caught me off guard..." his companion muttered after a long, accusatory silence. "It's fine, we'll just find him again, no harm done."

"For _your_ sake, you'd better hope so."

He heard their heavy footsteps disappear down the hallway. Loki dared a look from beyond the velvet drapes, and his heart began to settle at the emptiness before him. He dashed from his hiding spot, running carefully to not make any noise. But a glimmer out of the corner of his eye took his attention from his path ahead. He crept closer to the crack door, peering inside like a thief. Inside the room glowed a blue orb set into a brass and silver staff, illuminating what appeared to be his beloved library. Loki scanned the room and quickly ducked inside. Strange, really, how the scepter called to him. Slowly he approached, bound hands outstretched, and curled around the staff’s handle. The glow was warm, and clutching it, he felt more at peace. He lifted it from its stand and held it before him, the curved blade pointed outward; he was going to need a weapon for his escape, after all, and this was perfect, his confines taken into account.

Unfortunately, Loki’s manacles still restricted his magic, and for the moment it was only a brutish weapon for stabbing and slicing. Loki used it instead to break the window he’d hidden in front of, satisfied with the tinkling of glass. He stepped up onto the sill, standing outside the window with the cold stones of the castle’s exterior walls bleeding through the thin cotton of his shirt. He stood above, of all places, the river that ran through Asgard to supply them fresh water, the Norns once cleansing the waters before they even reached the gates. What was once clear as the summer skies was murky brown. Loki knew exactly what gave it that color. His choices of escape were limited, however, to either dying at the hands of that murdering harlot or be swept away in the steadfast currents of waste and filth. And when he heard the screech of the banshee herself, his decision was more than made.

Though his lips were pressed tightly together, he could not keep the stench, nor the tainted water itself, from entering his nose. He also gasped and swallowed it, a pseudo-relief to his burning lungs as he was ripped along the bottom of the river, slammed into rocks and the banks themselves before finding enough of a foothold to push himself to the surface and gasp for air. Water leaked past his lips, and he dared not think of how it tasted. Quickly, he drew in as much air as he could and dove beneath the surface once again, eyelids pressed tightly together, as he passed underneath the stone borders of his home. What sounded like crossbow bolts sang as they dove into the water after him, though he was sure they were lances of ice and nothing but. He prayed that no injury would come to him; beneath this swill even a small cut would grow infectious and probably kill him.

Loki did not resurface until the attacks stopped and the world around him was nothing but the muted sound of rushing water. He managed a pathetic crawl through the water and up onto the bank, sputtering and coughing and gagging all the while. The river’s currents had carried him farther from his home than he had expected, but it was still too close. He gazed upon Asgard one last time before turning from the once beautiful city and disappearing from its sight into the trees that amassed into the Dark Forest. As silly as the name was, even thoughts of it now brewed fear in his belly. Loki pushed past it, only the thought of death able to make his feet move forward.

The forest was dark and smelled of heady fog. Loki stumbled through the thick mud, his feet sinking ankle deep with every step. He was tired, malnourished, and utterly lost within the bordered of the leafless, ever reaching trees. The shackles around his wrists were heavy, drawing even more of what little energy Loki had left; the scepter within his hands felt heavier than when he’d first picked it up. He was listening, however, at attention for any sound of the approaching enemy.

The Jotuns were not far behind. Their great beasts cried to the air, shrill and sharp as the blade of a knife; he swore he could almost feel their hot breath on the nape of his neck. Loki trudged on, escaping from the hold of the mud; relief flooded through him at the feel of hard, steady dirt beneath his feet. He was exhausted, in need of food and warmth and sleep, yet he broke into a run. If he had been healthy, he would have laughed at any other man running the same way, his feet dragging and breathing shallow and heavy. But it was the best he had, though he stumbled many times.

Loki was sure he would be free, and then something heavy and cold and hard collided with his face. For only half a second he feared a Jotun was there, ready to kill him and end his short taste of freedom. But as he inhaled from the surprise, what tasted like grainy ash entered his mouth, nose, and eyes. It caked his tongue, the back of his throat, glued his eyes shut. Loki tried to curse and breathed it in and his foot sank into what felt like a hole, nearly breaking his leg in half as he fell. He spat onto the dirt beneath him, scraping his tongue with his teeth to spit what was now a thick paste forming in his mouth. He wondered if his escape was going to be even more difficult, when he felt something start to pull at him. He fought to open his eyes, blinded by the offending dust and tears, but he could make out a dry, rough, oddly small hand grabbing his shirt, and attempting to pull him down. He rubbed at his eyes again and opened them. The ground, the very earth itself, had reached up with many small arms, with hands like a babe’s, and was trying to pull him into the dirt. Loki yelped and brushed them off; each appendage combusted with his touch as he scrambled clumsily to his feet and found renewed vigor in his fear. 

Loki ran, looking behind him ever so often that he almost didn’t notice the looming dark figure ahead. Once again, he assumed the Jotuns had found him; he longed to beg for them to take him back. But what he almost embraced was actually a large tree, blacker than the night sky above them. It held the countenance of a golden-eyed demon, long clawed fingers extended toward him. Loki didn’t know if he screamed, but as his entire world turned as black as that hand, he was sure he was dying.

*

Tony would have missed the body lying beneath the withered oak if it hadn’t been for the glowing weapon lying across his chest. He held up a hand for his team, six other men armed to the teeth with blades and his own invention, a little something he liked to call a gun, to halt. They saw him mere seconds after he dismounted from his horse and knelt down to press his fingers against the man’s throat.

“He’s got to be dead, Stark.” Barton said. “We have to get that message to Fury, pronto.”

“Go on ahead.” he barked over his shoulder. “I think this guy got a big whiff of the powder.”

A rather feminine voice began to laugh from underneath a pitch black hood, and the rider’s horse jumped forward with the prod of heeled boots into its flanks. After a long moment, the other five followed suit. Tony hefted the staff into his hands, feeling the thrum of magic like a warm heartbeat. The spear was powerful, but holding it gave Tony an unnerved feeling. He stuffed it into a saddlebag and turned to the body lying unconscious in the mud. Half of his face was covered in the noxious powder. He reached over and brushed some of the offending powder from his face. Dark hair, pale skin. Tony carefully hefted the man up, holding him against his side and fighting to lay his unconscious body onto the saddle before climbing on himself. His heartbeat had been weak, fluttering like a bird with a broken wing. Tony hoped he could get him to their fortress before his life gave out.

When he arrived, the man thrown carelessly over his shoulder, he was more than disappointed to find their great leader had retired for the evening, mainly because it meant that a room wouldn’t be lent to the guy until Fury approved and more than likely the freeloader was going to be dumped on him until morn.

"You get babysitting duty." Barton laughed, a thick piece of buttered bread clutched in his hand. "We already called it."

"Thanks for waiting for me then, Chickadee."

"It's _Hawkeye_." he corrected sourly, viciously ripping into the crust of his snack with his teeth.

"Right, right. Send Coulson to my room with clean clothes for this guy." With a nod to his burden, Tony made his way to his room at the far end of the modified castle. It served as his bedroom and his smithy, a constant roaring fire keeping his lodgings as hot as an inferno; pipes connected to the hearth ran throughout the castle in a twisted labyrinth, providing heat to the other rooms during the winter and cold nights. It was large, the window often left open to view the open field to the right of the castle. It wasn’t a choice invasion entrance, but he watched it nonetheless. His bed was clean, the sheets freshly washed. He laid his burden atop them and fetched a bowl of water and a rag, cleaning his face of the offending powder. His skin was flushed and fevered. The powder was getting to him, worse than it usually affected humans. Then again, the guy wasn’t in the greatest health 

Once he’d managed to remove most of the dust from his skin and hair, he stripped the man down and carefully set him in the bed, the goose down mattress bending to the curve of his body. He wet a separate—and most importantly, clean—rag again and placed it across his forehead to offset the fever, droplets of water sliding into his hair, down the curved shell of his ear. Tony shook his head and stood, pausing to tie on his thick leather apron. He had work to do, and an unconscious and unexpected houseguest was not going to change a thing. He picked up a hammer and set to work.


	4. Unexpected Turns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, everyone!!

Loki awoke, strangely, in a soft featherbed, covered in cotton sheets that smelled of fresh water and the tiniest hint of rosemary. His clothes were gone, leaving him bare as a newborn beneath the thin blanket. He propped himself up on his elbows, looking around the room. It was cluttered mainly in tools that he did not recognize, pieces of curved metal, and a burning fire. He smelled oils and sulfur, grateful to have exchanged the stench of excrement for them. And on the other side, staring at him as if he were one of the strange devices beneath him on the desk, was an older man with dark brown curls and a crooked smirk. 

“Morning, princess.” he said with a wink. Immediately Loki pulled the blankets up to his chin, glowering at the man as fiercely as he dared. “I didn’t touch you, you precious virgin flower, so save the venom. Also, you’re welcome for removing those chains.” He stood, turning to face Loki. His shirt was sleeveless, broadcasting the muscled arms and toned shoulders. He wore the leather apron of a blacksmith, skin and clothes darkened with soot as if to emphasize it. 

“Where am I?” he demanded in a proudly calm voice. His host removed his gloves and cracked his knuckles one by one, deep amber eyes staring at him curiously. Loki curled his body in on itself, feeling just like he had under Farbauti’s gaze. Except where she brought fear by power, the mystery of the unknown made him wary around this man.

“You’re in the stronghold of the Seven Dwarves.”

“The what?”

“I agree, the name’s pretty awful. I didn’t choose it.” he added, hooking his leg around a small stool and kicking it so that it skittered across the stone floor and stopped just a few feet from where Loki sat perched on the mattress defensively. He sank down and propped his elbows on his knees, staring at Loki pensively with his intertwined fingers forming a prop for his chin. “But, enough about us; for now, anyway. A better question is, who are you?”

“Why?”

“Because you wore those chains. Only the Jotuns know how to use perolium, that even I haven’t figured out. But we know those runes. You’re dangerous enough that they needed to block off your magic. I want to make sure I’m not making a mistake by bringing your ass in here.”

Loki swallowed, his years of training his face to hide his emotions coming in especially handy right now. “I am Loki. Loki…Odinson.” 

The man had noticed his hesitance, as evidence by the way his eyebrows moved up his tanned forehead, but decided against acknowledging it. “Right. Odinson.” he mused. Loki cleared his throat, sitting up a little straighter. 

“And you? I demand to know you name.”

Loki wanted to curse his word choice when the ends of his mouth curled up. The soot-covered man shrugged casually. “I was liking this whole ‘aloof stranger’ ordeal, but if you must know my name, so be it. Anthony Stark: inventor, crusader, love-maker; though that last part does not apply to you in the slightest, so stop looking at me like that.” He smirked and stood, cracking his knuckles. “Well then, Loki. I had Clint fetch a nice change of clothes for you, and once you’re dressed we’ll take you to our rather illustrious leader. Of course, I say that, he’s more like a grizzly bear. Barbaric, a bit cruel.” Stark shrugged casually.

“I see.”

“Right. Since you’re such a precious little thing I’ll wait outside for you to get dressed.”

Loki didn’t move until the door had been firmly shut by the rather odd blacksmith. He looked to where Stark had gestured, to a trunk just by the foot of the bed. A pair of black trousers and a white shirt were folded neatly atop the wooden case just at his feet. Loki reached for them and carefully pulled them on. His shoes were gone, and none had been left to replace them; the stone floor was surprisingly warmer than he’d expected. He opened the door carefully, finding the blacksmith leaning against the wall with his apron folded and clutching in hand. Loki couldn’t help it as his eyes drifted to his chest, locking onto the glowing blue beneath his shirt, just over where his heart would be. He quickly averted his gaze elsewhere as the man leaned around him to simply toss the protective cloth onto the floor of his room and pull the door closed.

“Try not to be so obvious.” he said, and then turned his back to the Prince without so much as another word. Loki kept his eyes averted from the man’s back as he followed him down the wide corridors, making note of every window and door that could be used as possible exit routes should he find himself in need of one. His analyzing ceased when Stark stopped before a polished oak door and threw his fist against it several times.

“Fury!” he shouted to the person within. “The guy’s awake.”

“Then stop yelling like a damned Neanderthal and bring him in!” came the reply from the other side, the deep voice muffled by the thick wood. Loki cocked an eyebrow as Stark turned to face him and held an arm out, as if to gesture that he should open the door himself and go in first. He frowned disapprovingly as he twisted the doorknob. Behind a polished oak wood desk sat a dark-skinned man, his bald head reflecting the flickering candlelight. He looked up and frowned—possibly glared—at Loki. He set his papers down on the surface of the desk and stood, pacing in a wide circle to look Loki over as Stark shut the door behind him, hovering in the back of the room. He wore thick black cloaks that covered him from neck to boots and billowed around his feet when he moved. An eye patch covered what had to be a ruined socket, the glistening scar tissue around it only supporting Loki’s suspicions. 

“And who, may I ask, are you?” he demanded, walking circles around him. Loki craned his neck to keep the man in his immediate sights. 

“What gives you the means to demand my name?” 

“Loki Odinson.” came Stark’s traitorous voice from behind him. Loki whirled to pinion him with a glower, instead finding himself to be glaring at his inquisitor. 

“’Odinson.’” There was a tone to his voice now, a tone that Loki didn’t like so much. He narrowed his eyes. “We were informed that the younger son had perished in the takeover.”

“Your informant was wrong.” said the clone behind him. Loki could only smirk at the reflective skull as the man whirled around, grabbing what looked like an odd L-shaped club from his belt and pointed one end at the magically-created imitation. Stark had grabbed the wooden coat rack by the door. “What on Earth is that thing you’re waving in my face?”

“It’s true.” he said, more in wonder than surprise as he hid the rather crude-looking weapon. Loki’s clone vanished, leaving behind only the residual mist of yellowish-green mist that soon dissipated as the man called Fury turned to stare at him. Stark returned the large wooden pole back to its station by the doorway.

Loki, however, did not catch the rest of his words. One moment he was trying to see through the ever-shrinking tunnel of blackness that overcame his sight. The next second he was half-lying on the floor, looking up at an upside down yet obviously concerned face. He’d fainted, he realized with growing embarrassment. The use of magic to make one clone— _one measly doppelganger_ —had wrenched from him the energy to stand and remain awake. Slowly he pulled himself to his feet, ignoring Stark’s insistence to aid him. 

“Next time, you should make sure you have the energy to show me up.” Fury said, the faintest traits of a sarcastic smile on his face. Loki glared but said nothing, his vision still not yet focusing. He once again pulled away from Stark’s helping grasp. The man looked offended, holding his hands up as if to say “fine, have it your way.”

“I’ll remember that.” he replied thickly as the door opened and Fury turned to face a woman with short brown hair. She was dressed in all black, same as him, but she wore no cloaks. Instead, to Loki’s bewilderment, she was dressed in a long sleeved shirt and trousers whose ends ducked into the laced boots on her feet. She carried an envelope in her hands, sparing him only a fleeting, curious glance. She didn’t seem at all interested at the pale, sickly looking man clinging to Fury’s desk to stay on his feet. “Hill. I thought you were on patrol.”

“I was. Then I was approached by a messenger.” she said, handing it to Fury. She crossed her arms as he deftly broke the wax seal (which was nothing more than a clumsily dribbled line across the opening) and unfolded it. His brow furrowed over his one eye as he read it, frowning at it as he would a misbehaved child. 

“Send out Rogers.” he finally said. “He can pick his team.” 

Hill nodded, took the note, and left, saying no more to anyone. Fury instead turned his attention back to Loki, who had caught his breath and his head. He stood straight now, brushing his hair from his face. 

“Stark.” Fury said to the lurker at the front of the room. “Find this man a room. Let him get some proper sleep and we’ll send food. Once you’re fully rested, we’re going to put you to work.”

Work? Loki didn’t quite like the sound of that. “What kind of work?”

“Well, you’ll just have to wait and see, Odinson.” Unsure if the quick flick of his eyelid was supposed to be a wink or if he was just blinking, Loki followed Stark out of the room deciding he didn’t like Fury. 

“Your fearless leader?” he asked when he was sure they were out of earshot of the man. Stark snorted, rubbing his nose with a sooty knuckle. 

“Yeah, you could say that.”

*

Sif had never felt so exhausted as she clutched her husband to her, hand slowly threading through his matted, tangled hair. Like many nights, he’d woken up tossing and turning, screaming for his brother. She didn’t understand him. He preached hate for the Jotuns, talked of wishing for the end of their entire race, but when it came to mentions of Loki—most often from Fandral or the precious few who had sworn their silence of that day—he put a stop to any ill-spoken word against him and insisted on finding his brother. Whether it was him, or his body. 

He ignored any rational argument that to hate Farbauti and her people was to hate Loki, too. He threatened death at anyone who demanded he forget the brother he’d loved. Only recently had he admitted to knowing Loki’s true bloodline. His friends had looked betrayed, unable to meet his eyes as they silently left the room. Sif had not spoken a word to him since that tense meeting, yet here she was—not only sharing his bed, but holding him as he tried to fight the images still flaring behind his closed eyelids.

*

The next day Loki found out what “work” meant. He was taken to the deepest floor of the stone fortress, the dungeon. It was damp and cold, a draft blowing through its carefully carved corridors from an unknown opening to the surface. Torches were lit to guide them, the orange flames throwing flickering shadows across the emptied cells. The iron bars had been taken from their posts, leaving empty holes standing before small, curved hollows in the walls. 

“You do not keep prisoners?” he asked casually, trying to find somewhere to look other than the beam of blue light that emitted from Stark’s chest. Said smithy shook his head, eyes glancing about at the empty cells anyway.

“Why would we?” he asked. “We’re mercenaries, not sheriffs. Our enemies, we either kill or bring to their tormented victims for justice.”

“Justice? You mean death.”

“We don’t get involved in politics like that. As soon as we get our money, we’re a non-partial, uninvolved third party to them.”

“Oh, of course. If I you don’t mind me being so bold, do you ever stop and question why the person being hunted by you is being hunted in the first place? Or do you even stop to consider they may have their own reasons?”

“Actually, I _do_ mind.” Stark said, his tone implying that any more questions would result in physical pain on his part. Rather than take the chance of accidentally blowing a hole into the man, he instead shut his mouth as Stark grabbed the only unlit torch on the wall and pulled it down. The hidden lever moved without any problem, and the wall before them slid away, revealing a brightly lit room. Stark pulled the awestruck Prince inside, and the hidden door fell back into place. 

The room was lit by several dozen lamps suspended from chains that crisscrossed above them, leaving no corner to hide in shadow. A man was stooped over one of the strange clubs Fury had held, except it was mostly in pieces. At the sound of their arrival his head snapped up. He wore a deep purple hood that covered most of his face. What wasn’t hidden in shadow was shielded by a black mask. His chin moved as the muffled voice behind the mask spoke.

“Good to see you again, Stark.” it said. “Who’s he?”

“Bruce, this is your new assistant. Loki, this is Bruce Banner, our magical device experts.” He paused as the men exchanged a brief handshake. 

“I don’t recall asking for an assistant.” he said. “Ah, not that I’m not grateful for it, Loki.”

“Why is your face covered?” Loki asked. That question earned him a swift and painful punch to the back of his skull. The pain reverberated down his neck and up to his temples.

“Keep your mouth shut,” Stark snapped. “Bruce, he’s all yours. Abuse him however you like.” With that charming line, Stark took his leave. Rubbing the swelling bruise on his head, Loki glared after him. He wondered if leaving Farbauti’s castle was the right choice. Stuck to work in this underground room was no different from being stuck in that tower. The only difference being that he was now following orders of a strange masked man, his magic rendering him unconscious if used too much or too often. Life was not going to be easy for him here, either.


	5. A Step In Some Direction

Loki spent his first month in that underground lab, working for the strange masked scientist. He was smart, extremely so, yet he did not speak much to anyone except Stark, who often brought them food and insisted on speaking with Loki as he ate, even if most of their conversations consisted of his boasting about the times he'd saved his teammates on hunts. He avoided more of Loki's barbed questions with heroic feats and even spent a couple days with them, repairing an impressively constructed suit of armor. The gold and maroon metals shone in the flickering firelight as he welded and molded, often asking Loki to hold a lantern over his tools so he could bend over his gauntlets and check them up close. It was one of these days, as both Loki and Stark hovered over a broken piece, when something behind them popped loudly, followed by a pained yelp from Banner and the sound of shattering glass. They both whirled to face the scientist, finding him collapsed to the ground and hiding his face in his hands. He was covered in some kind of liquid that was steaming from heat. 

"Shit!" Tony cried, dropping his hammer and throwing his mask from his face. Loki more carefully performed his similar tasks and followed, leaping over the desk. Banner had dropped his hood, the curls of black hair soaked and matted against his head. But what shocked Loki, had his knees locked and muscles frozen, were the tracks of black runes across his face. Many he had not seen before, but a few stood out, memory recalling the ancient swirls he'd read over and over in his book back home. "Beast," "anger," and "curse" were among them. 

"Shit, shit, Banner don't do this! Not now." Stark pleaded, holding the Bruce's face between his hands, forcing the trembling man to look at him. "Loki, get out of here!"

"Why, what's happening?" he asked, but he didn't need any verbal answer as Banner began his transformation with pained wails. His voice began to warp, sounding stuck between some horrid beast and a desperate man. His brown eyes began to burn as green as Loki's, perhaps even more so. His skin also turned a startling acidic color, and he was _growing_. Stark stood and backed away, eyes darting around frantically, for what he wasn't sure. Despite the chill sweat rolled down his face and neck.

Then the beast roared. 

The creature that had once been Banner threw a large fist towards them. Stark had been prepared, easily ducking and rolling out of his range. Loki, however, was thrown into the wall across the room. Only past instincts saved his life as he threw up a shield just before impacting. Magic was a lot like riding a horse, he'd found out: he never really forgot it. But the protection didn't stop the way his head snapped back and forth painfully, or the deep gash he felt on his skull. Blood dripped through his hair as Stark buckled a gauntlet onto his wrist—God's teeth, what were those _things_ attached to the glow in his chest?!—and fired what looked to be a ball of blue fire at the creature. With a heavy pained yelp it fell back, though the attack didn't faze him by much. With a rapid shake of his head, it was back to fight, screaming out another guttural roar. Stark was shouting for him to leave, that he had the situation covered. 

That was how Loki got the idea in the first place. 

"Keep him distracted!" Loki called, earning several unflattering nicknames from Stark as he rose to his feet, blinking the stars from his eyes. Stark shot at the beast again, eliciting another war cry and a flying fist. Loki didn't care to watch where it landed. He instead turned his eyes upward, chanting underneath his breath. The chains rattled, extinguishing many of the lights. He was seeing mainly by the flare of Stark's dancing chest piece as he dodged and fought with a creature he could not see. The chains rattled further, drowning out Stark's voice as they finally broke from their rings. With only a single word they whipped around the beast, finally illuminated by the blue glow. Reinforced with the last of Loki's magic before he stepped into dangerous territory, it had no hope of breaking through. Somewhere in its struggling it knocked itself to the ground. The labored gasps began to change, and just as the door slid away to reveal Fury and a crew behind him, Banner was once again human, wrapped up in his torn but otherwise whole cloak with Stark standing before him, unwinding the chains from around his legs.

"What the hell happened?" Fury demanded, eyes immediately finding Loki. He knew the blame fell on him without having a verbal confirmation. 

"I'm sorry." Banner muttered pitifully. "I was working, I didn't realize the balance was unstable…"

"And where the hell were you?"

“I told him to help Tony.” Banner answered before Loki could utter a word in his own defense, though his mouth had opened to do so. “Please, it was my fault. I didn’t want his help on it.”

Fury’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “Stark, Odinson, leave. You’re on leave until further notice.”

Loki opened his mouth once more to protest, but Stark caught his eye and shook his head, jerking it to gesture him to follow. Graciously, Loki nodded and followed the smithy. He was roiling with more emotions and anger than he could describe. Stark didn’t stop him when he decided to blow a deep crevice into the rock on the other side of the room, satisfied with how the rock exploded with green fire and crumbled to the floor. He decided to do it again, and again, and again.

“Fury doesn’t want to blame him for it.” he said when Loki was finished. “He just can’t help himself sometimes. The anger takes him, and…” he finished with a shrug, his usual grin nowhere to be seen on his face. “It’s best not to ask about it. Pretend it never happened.”

“How can I—”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t deserve the answers to.” he snapped, and then flinched at his own tone. Loki was taken aback by his agitation, startled enough to spark magic on his fingertips. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Whatever. Get your head checked out. You're with me tomorrow, Odinson, so don't sleep too late.”

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

Thor stood before the collapsed Jotun, breathing heavily. There was no mercy, no remorse in his eyes as his gaze glided just a few yards away, where the beast's legs were lying abandoned on a patch of frost. The broken Giant wasn't screaming, much to his dismay, but hatred burned in the creature's eyes.

"You think you are doing justice?" it asked him. "We simply took from Odin what he took from us. You Asgardians started this war. Revenge will gain you nothing."

"You're right." Thor agreed. "You have already taken my father and my brother from me. I can never have them back. But I can at least free my people from you."

The head of Mjolnir fell.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

Loki found the smithy gone from his workshop, leaving the large fire burning in the hearth to collect ash. His tools were neatly put away into a leather satchel leaning against the hearth, half-finished blades lying on soot-stained tables with uneven stains and smears upon their surfaces. He frowned at his surroundings, wondering of he'd have the patience to work with a man who was later than he. 

“ _Your presence is requested in Director Fury's quarters_.” said a voice Loki was surprised by. His head snapped upward, eyes scanning the ceiling. He didn't feel a spirit of any kind in the room, and none came through the carelessly open windows. “ _It is best you hurry_.” The voice came from _behind_ him, he realized with shock and bewilderment. But the only thing behind him was the fire. He turned, facing the dancing flames. Indeed, now that he was looking for it, he could feel a strange presence from it, registering so low on his radar that he had spent hours in this room and never noticed.

"God's teeth," he gasped, grasping the edge of the risen stone to lean towards the fire. Its heat flushed his face as he gazed at the licking flames in wonder. How had he not noticed the fire before? 

“Mister Odinson, Director Fury is not in the best of moods this morning. I would highly suggest you make haste.”

Oh, right. Loki leaned away, dabbing at the sweat beading on his face. Making a mental note to ask Stark about the speaking flames, he followed the familiar corridors until he reached the door where shouting could be heard from inside. Hill, whose first name he still did not know, stood outside, looking mildly annoyed. At his appearance she nodded toward the door, saying nothing. He greeted her with a bow of his head and swiftly rapped his knuckles against the iron-enforced wood. Immediately the talking ceased. He took the silence as a beckon, and entered the room. Fury and Stark stood before each other, both looking slightly out of breath. Stark was slightly purple in the face, jaw clenched tightly. He wore his plated armor, completed with a gaudy maroon cloak trimmed in gold and fastened about his neck; the glow of the strange object in his chest could be seen from the breastplate. Sitting in chairs and leaning against the wall were five other people. He recognized the archer, Clint, and the red headed woman, he remembered, was Natasha; he’d heard her name spoken through whispers that preceded her arrival. The other three men were strangers to him, their eyes narrowed in speculation.

"Anthony insisted on taking you with him on this mission." Fury said without preamble. "I, personally, don't trust you."

"Why? Because I was not directly beside Banner when...when it happened?" he asked, seeing the way Stark looked at him, warning him against a careless word. 

"There's that. You've only been here for a month, magician. I'm not sure I feel comfortable sending you out with my men." Natasha coughed pointedly. "With my mercenaries." he corrected.

"With all due respect, sir," Barton piped up, "Stark wouldn't ask for this guy if he didn't think he'd be useful."

"This guy knows how to fight, Fury, and penning him in is only going to make him cabin-crazy." Stark added immediately afterward.

Fury looked at him, his eyebrow raised speculatively, almost hopefully. He was looking for anyone who agreed with him. He was sore out of luck.

"If he's a danger, I'll take him out." Natasha promised. Loki had not witnessed her abilities in person, but he knew she was a highly-requested huntress for more than just her looks, and the guns—which he’d learned about recently—strapped to her hips gleamed menacingly in the sunlight let in through the open windows, as if to emphasize her promise.

"Very well." he consented. "Stark, give him his weapon."

Grinning triumphantly, he produced a familiar gleaming gold and silver weapon and tossed it at Loki without warning; Loki almost fumbled the spear, his fingers wrapping precariously around the staff. With his magic unrestrained and flowing through his body, the deep blue orb tucked carefully between the two blades began to glow faintly. All eyes locked onto it curiously until Stark threw a leather baldric and a dark green cloak following, covering the powered gem.

"Suit up, Princey Boy."

An hour later they were mounted and riding down an unfamiliar dirt road through the forest, latticed by the bare branches of trees, winter having stripped them of their leaves that now crunched beneath the heavily shoed hooves of their geldings. They were spread out along the trail, Barton and Natasha riding ahead and the three unknowns trailing behind. That left Loki and Stark to watch the middle for ambushes. It also left them alone, which was perfect for the conversation that had been bubbling in his head since he'd entered Fury's office. 

"You didn't ask me to come along because you thought I'd go crazy being stuck inside."

The other man's mouth tightened, a heavy breath expelling from his nostrils. Though he kept his gaze ahead, Loki could see him looking for the right words, eyes moving before him as if searching for them on the stretch of flat grey road.

"I have put so much of my life into the organization. We exist to help people. And yesterday you threw my beliefs to the dogs, questioning things you could never understand without experiencing them."

"You want me to see the way you do." It was not a question, but Stark nodded in response, leading his steed from a plume of grass by the road. It snorted irritably, but followed. 

"If not, then at least understand. I won't force you on another hunt after this."

Silence fell between them again. Loki kept his eyes trained on the blurred flanks of the horses in front of them, ahead by about half a mile.

"We've heard of you," Stark said casually, and though Loki kept his face void of anything but curiosity, his heart leaped into his throat. Fear clutched at his stomach, and he thought he would surely see his breakfast again. But the fear also stemmed another thought, one more hopeful: perhaps they knew of his brother? In the hustle and bustle of working beneath the ground, he'd had neither the energy nor the time to inquire of him. "Rumors say you're an incurable trickster."

"When I was a child." he admitted. "It has been many years since I have been able to amuse myself through petty tricks." 

"With Barton, you will find a willing audience. _Or_ , unsuspecting victim." he added with a hopeful inflection in his tone. Loki couldn't help the smirk that drew the corners of his mouth heavenward.

"Now, Mister Stark--"

"Tony, if you would." he interrupted. "Mr. Stark was my father."

"...Anthony," he amended, and though he made a face, his companion didn’t protest. "You wouldn't be suggesting that the best way to show the great director that I am capable of being trusted is to torment the rest of the team."

"Of course it is. And if he asks, I'll simply say that Barton's reflexes seemed...lacking."

Another hour was wasted refusing Stark's pleads to do _something_ to Barton, though Loki was tempted to change one or three of his arrows into snakes just to keep Anthony from begging him any longer; the whining was beginning to grate his nerves. But it was getting dark, and the two assassins ahead of them had stopped, their rides turned to face them. When they caught up, Clint suggested they take rest and sleep for the night. Loki was absolutely incredulous as they dismounted and began to lay their blankets out mere feet from the road, not even behind the shadowed border of the Forest. They set in a circular pattern, where Clint began to dig a fire pit.

"Out here?" he asked as the three men caught up. "Just right out in the open?”

"Well, yes." Anthony said, sounding shocked himself that Loki even needed to ask. 

"What if someone attacks, then?" Despite his doubts, Loki swung himself down from the hard leather saddle. An entire day's ride left his backside rather saddle-sore, and he wasn't looking forward to sleeping on grass and rocks. 

Barton laughed as he set down Natasha's blanket, on which she gracefully sank with a word of thanks. "Anyone stupid enough to attack us deserves what they get."

"Not what I meant," he muttered beneath his breath as he followed Anthony to tether his horse to the nearest tree. He noticed something swinging in the late evening breeze, chilling him. 

"What is that?" he asked, pointing to the oddly shaped shadow when Anthony looked up at him. He squinted, glaring into the shadows as he worked out the shape of the object. Then he grinned to himself.

"Ah, I had no idea they'd strung them up this far." He quickly stepped into the throng of trees and pulled the object from its tethering. When he presented it to Loki, he was surprised to see it was a gourd, the dried skin a deep champagne color. A slit ran around it, from top to bottom and back up the side. "It's a favorite invention of Bruce's. This is probably what knocked you out when we first found you." he explained, twisting it open, revealing the inside to be full of ash-grey powder. "It's a drug that affects the Jotuns pretty badly. Makes them see some crazy shit."

"Crazy shit" didn't even cover the horrors Loki had experienced underneath its influence, over which he still had the occasional nightmare. "What does it do to humans?"

"It's like an irritant. Burns, you can't breathe, eventually you hyperventilate and pass out. Win-win solution, so long as we don't forget where they are and run into them ourselves."

"And the best way to avoid that is to travel on the open roads." Loki concluded. "You certainly have some odd ways."

"When they stop working, I'll worry about that." he laughed, tossing the gourd and its contents into the brush, careful that it was far enough away from the line of horses grazing on the blooming bushes in front of them. "All right, then, get out dinner and we'll get to the stories."

“Speaking of stories, when I went to your workshop, your fire spoke to me.” Loki said, earning a few undecipherable glances from his other teammates. 

“Ah, so you met Jarvis? He’s an old friend of mine. A fire spirit.” Stark reached into his shirt and pulled out a locket dangling on a thin strip of leather. “When I’m on the road he comes with me.” he explained, tucking the amulet back into his shirt, hidden from view. “Now, what about that grub? I haven’t eaten since breakfast!”

As one of their teammates, an older gentleman by the name of Coulson—whose name he learned through Barton hollering at him to grab firewood—cooked the rabbits in his pouch, everyone else told stories of hunts they'd been on. Some stories were suspenseful, others heartbreaking, and even more had Loki in tears from laughing so hard. Anthony grinned in triumph as the dark-haired Prince fell onto his back, hands tightly clutching his side as if they were the only things holding him together. It had been long, way too long, since he’d allowed himself to recklessly abandon any form of emotional caging.

"Your turn, Princey." he said when he'd regained his breath. 

"I don't have any hunting stories. Not even anything recent."

"Tell one from when you were a kid." This came, surprisingly, from Natasha, who was busy whittling a spare rabbit bone with a knife she'd borrowed from one of them men into a deathly sharp point. Her startlingly azure eyes gleamed dangerously in the firelight. He wondered if the flame-haired woman was challenging him in some cryptic way he'd never understand until the knife in her hands was in his throat.

"I don't remember too much from then," he began, lying through his teeth, "but one time, when I was about twelve..."

It was Anthony and Clint's turn to roll on the grass when he said the words he'd spoke as an angered child, knocked from a tree and angry at his brother’s dismissal at his pain, adding in the strange hand shaking and saying the words the exact way he remembered having said them.

"My mother was so angry when she'd heard!" He was laughing now, though not with the wheezing fits that had taken both men. "I surely thought she was going to kill me when I saw her face."

“Cluh—cluh—!” Clint gasped, trying to force out the word but finding it hard to speak with his lack of air. Both men were actually turning a proud indigo color from lack of oxygen. Natasha was grinning and shaking her head over her sharpened bone, though whether it was in amusement or exasperation, he didn’t know. “ _Chlamydia_!” he finally burst, and dissolved into another breathless bout of tittering. Loki wondered if the man’s humor was much like his had been as a child, or if he’d any alcohol in the flask he’d been drinking from since the beginning of dinner.

“Not as funny as you’d think.” Anthony piped up, gasping for breath but more or less under control of himself again, though his lips turned up in the occasional grin. 

“Somehow I’m not surprised you’d know.” Loki said, smirking. He found himself oddly enjoying the company of these people, however strange they were. For the first time in a while he was actually happy.

“All right, boys, lights out.” Natasha said, tossing her bone into the flames. “If we’re going to reach the village before dark tomorrow we’ll need to wake early.”

“I’ll take first watch.” Anthony said, quickly as water was cascaded over the flickering flames, dousing them and covering the small camp in darkness. Loki could only see his teammates by the blue glow of Anthony’s chest piece, all of whom were wrapping up in their cloaks and falling to the ground to sleep. He hesitantly did the same, finding the earth a little too hard to sleep on. He finally settled with pillowing his head with one arm, curling in on himself like he was used to back in the tower. The cloak was light, but warm, and he didn’t think much more about the twigs digging into his side as he slowly sunk into the deep dark of exhaustion.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

He was a very expressive sleeper. Even when he’d pulled his hood over his head, Loki had fallen asleep toward Tony, giving him perfect view of the way his face contorted suddenly. Whatever he was seeing behind those darting eyes wasn’t pretty. Sweat began to bead on his face, his nostrils flaring with his deep breathing. He turned onto his back, onto his side again, once more rolling over to face the other way. His foot struck out, knocking away a crumbling damp log from the remains of their fire. And finally, with a loud gasp, Loki bolted to a sitting position, fisting the grass as his bright, panicked eyes took in the otherwise calm scene around him.

“You all right, Princey?” Tony asked, just as startled as he when Loki flinched at his voice. He turned to look at him. Loki looked paler, his skin glistening in the light they had. Slowly he nodded, wiping his dirty hand on his trousers before running it across his forehead and through his tousled hair.

“Yes, thank you.” he said with some dignity.

“That looked like a nasty dream.”

“It…it was.” he admitted, seemingly hesitant to say more. Tony patted the ground next to him invitingly. “I, er, I do not think I should get to sleep any time soon. Would it bother you to let me keep watch?”

“On your first hunt? Of course it would. But you’re welcome to join me. With everyone asleep and no bandits to fight, it’s a bit boring all by myself.” He patted the smooth ground beside him once more.

Loki raised an eyebrow, trying not to look offended and failing at it, as he stood, shook the dirt and grass and crushed leaves from his mantle, and then perched himself next to Tony, leaning against the tree next to his and leaving about an arm’s length of room. Loki still had a “holier-than-thou” air about him, his back held erect, head high and shoulders squared. He held a posture that had to have been beaten into him, for him to still use it even when leaning against a tree trunk on the bank of a dirt road. Though his face was void and calm, Tony could see his pulse beating like a jackrabbit’s in his neck, just below his jaw. 

“What was it?” he asked, surprised by how he’d unconsciously felt the need to lower his voice. Loki lowered his eyes to his crossed legs, and then to Tony. They were narrowed, suspicious.

“I should tell you?” he quipped. Though the corners of his mouth never moved, there was a spark in his eye, something Tony hadn’t seen from him in his weeks at the fortress. “You have never answered a one of my questions. Why should I answer yours?” Behind the childish grudge against being kept in the dark, there was an underlying defensive tone; he wanted to protect himself.

“Ouch.” Okay, he should have seen that one coming. “You’ve asked personal questions, whether you were aware of it or not, and—no offense, Sparky—you haven’t earned those answers.” Another pointed look, coupled with the barest of challenging smirks. “ _Right_. Right. Forget I ever said anything.” Tony threw his hand upward, allowing the gauntlet to fall to the dirt beside his knee. 

Loki did, allowing the silence to fall around them as heavily as the darkness. Thick clouds blocked out even the semblance of the silvery moon and pinprick stars above them. Eventually, just as Tony was beginning to feel the heaviness of exhaustion pulling on his eyelids, the man beside him uttered such an odd little snort that he snapped to and turned to face him. In the bluish glow Tony saw that the man was asleep, his chin perched upon his clavicle and his lips slightly parted, showing the faint glimmer of teeth. His skin still looked slightly damp from the sweats of his previous nightmare, but here he seemed peaceful. Unwilling to disturb him, Tony kept watch for another shift, until he finally could not stay awake a second longer and woke Clint to take over for him.


	6. You Cannot Forget

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to profusely apologize for the ridiculously long wait you guys had to go through for this next chapter; but, with me being in my senior year of high school, shit is just falling all over my head right now. But I thank you for being patient with me. Without any further ado, I'll let you guys read now.

**CHAPTER FIVE: YOU CANNOT FORGET**

_“Loki?” Thor opens the library door to find his brother sitting before the fire, hugging himself and wrapped in three woolen blankets. His teeth click together loudly as his sporadically vibrating mandible slams them together. He doesn’t turn to face his brother. Water still drips off of his hair and one droplet hangs from his earlobe like a diamond jewel. Thor cautiously sits next to his brother and places a large hand on his shoulder. “Mother told me what happened. Rest assured that those boys are going to be dealt with swiftly and mercilessly.”_

_Loki says nothing, curling further into himself so that Thor wonders if it hurts to have his body so tightly wound._

_“A-a-a-a-am I bruh-bruh-broken?” he stammers, wincing as he bites his lip in the attempt to speak. Thor is surprised enough that he drops his hand. Loki looks at him with wide, desperate eyes. “Duh-duh-did a wuh-wuh-wuh-witch curse muh-me?”_

_“Of course not, brother. Why would you ask?” He maneuvers himself to sit in front of his brother, making it easier for the swathed child to look at him over the peaks of his folded blankets._

_“Buh-because I…” he pauses, looking scared to admit whatever it is that troubles him. Thor scoots closer to him and puts both hands where his shoulders must be beneath the thickly woven cloth. “Whuh-when the buh-boys threw me i-in, I tuh-tuh-turned bluh-blue.” His chill is lessening and making him easier to understand. His throat tightens at the look of those deeply inquisitive eyes. “Luh-luh-look!” He dares to reveal a trembling hand from the cocoon around him, shaking just beneath his chin. Indeed, as Loki has said, his fingers are a shocking purplish indigo. Thor looks at them, and then smiles reassuringly at his fretting sibling._

_“It’s normal, Loki.” he says softly, and takes the small, cold hand between his. He feels as cold as death, and the chills reverberate up his arm, his skin breaking out into goose flesh as the hairs rise beneath his cotton shirt, seeking warmth. “Everyone turns blue when they get this cold.” But he continues to hold that tiny hand for longer, trying to massage it to get the blood flowing back normally. He does so with the other hand, working it between his own and keeping his smile the entire time. His ministrations slowly turn the indigo back to cream. Loki smiles, just barely, at his fingers. “You’re not broken at all, Loki.” he says. “Now, move closer to the fire. I’ll get a towel and dry your hair for you.”_

_“Can you get me some new clothes, too?” The request is small, hesitant, but Thor beams at his brother and nods before jumping to his feet and going to fetch the items. Outside he takes a right turn down another hallway, heading toward the medicine room. As he does so, he glances at his palms. The sword-roughened skin is flushed with pink from the cold, surrounding the blackened skin of frostbite that speckles his palms like outer shells of the fresh chicken eggs they eat for breakfast. Not broken, he thinks forlornly as he grabs the ointment from the top shelf._

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

Thor didn’t intentionally reminisce often, but when he did he was grateful it was the good memories he dredged up from his subconscious. He opened his eyes to a dark, moonlit bedroom, the thin drapes that covered his bed seeming to glow with the ethereal illumination. He sat up, rubbing his eyes and sighing heavily. Even after days of sleep he still felt exhausted. It had been years, too many for his liking, since a night’s sleep had been fulfilling. It felt more like one more thing on his to do list every day. One, kill Jotuns; two, intercept letters between Queen Farbauti and her allies and decode them; three, try to find any information on Loki; four, sleep. Repeat. He was tired of it. Just the thought of having to get up and command a battalion before breakfast already angered him. The body beside him stirred, and he turned to look at his wife. Sif slept like a cat, legs stretched out as far as she could reach around her, one hand tucked beneath her cheek and the other her pillow, no doubt her fingers wrapped around the gilded hilt of a knife. Even in sleep the woman could have the blade hilt-deep into a man’s neck before rubbing the crust from her eyes.

“Hm?” she mumbled sleepily as he lay back down and pulled her against him. In doing so he also pulled her hand from underneath her pillow. The blade of her dirk glistened. “Thor, love, what is it?”

“Nothing.” he lied. “Go back to sleep.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

“Of all the _lousy fucking_ —Odinson, watch Clint!” Tony shouted, his voice distorted by the mask that covered his face, but the sorcerer moved in the direction he was ordered, vaulting over the head of one of their attackers, spearing him with a lance of ice summoned from his hand before landing, rolling to his feet and fetching up near the base of the archer’s tree, where he’d rooted himself and watched for any other attackers. “Son of a cock-sucking _whore_!”

“You should be ashamed of your language.” Natasha laughed next to him. There was a loud pop to his left as a trigger was pulled, and just as the small cloud of ignited gunpowder and smoke began to dissipate, a highwayman’s head snapped back, a red dot between his eyes beginning to leak, and he fell dead to the ground. “To speak such a way in front of a lady?”

“If you’re a lady, Romanoff, I’m a prize-winning show pony.” 

“Stark!”

Suddenly Loki was next to him, a small throwing knife in his hands, in the chest of a man that had come up behind him during his banter. Loki wrenched the knife from the man’s chest.

“Thanks, Princey.”

“Please stop calling me that.” the clone said before it evaporated.

It felt like an eternity when they had finally scared off what was left of the bandits, though according to the sun it had been naught but half an hour. Clint clambered down from the branches of the damaged elm as Loki took it upon himself to count heads. When he turned once more to Tony, satisfied that everyone in their party was all right, he removed his mask and looked around at his team, assessing the injuries of his teammates and damages to weapons and armor. Natasha was limping from a bleeding wound in her thigh, but she stood as tall as she could and waved away Clint’s eager-to-aid hands. They trekked slowly back to the town, where the residents were hanging out of their windows, many hiding behind cracked wooden shutters. Tony held up the unconscious leader of the gang, his hand wrapped into the man’s hair. After giving the townspeople a moment to really see and recognize the man he dropped him to the ground. “He’s yours. Better come get him before he fights.”

Tony looked over his shoulder to see Loki frowning at him. When their eyes meet he looked away, his face taking on an unreadable expression. Disappointment? Like he could judge them anyway, he mused as the mayor of the village came to him, nearly falling to his knees before them as he shook Tony’s hand and thanked all of them too quickly for him to really understand. But he smiled all the same. Someone from somewhere in the crowd that surrounded them shouted out “drink,” and hell, he could use one. He eagerly followed the crowd to the tavern, a woman on his arm and booze on his mind.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

The beer in this town tasted like warm piss with an undertone of kerosene, but Loki drank anyway. His eyes were trained on Stark, who was trying to entertain three women simultaneously; one sat upon one knee, a second claimed the other, and the last leaned over his shoulder, her cheek pressed to his temple as she whispered to him. Whatever it was made him grin and laugh. 

“Spoils of war,” he mumbled and drained his mug. 

“You seem lonely, boy.” An older gentleman who smelled about as horrid as the ale tasted dropped himself next to Loki on the bench, grinning. “You don’t want our whores? Or are you too young to know how your prick works yet?” He laughed, spitting out beer onto the table and into his beard. 

“You should worry more about what I can do to damage yours than whether or not I know how to use mine,” Loki growled menacingly from behind gritted teeth before finishing his drink. Before the man could respond, however, they were both distracted by the multiple shrill shrieks from across the room. Loki stood at the sound of a crash as the crowd that surrounded Anthony parted. He was holding down a young boy, no older than seventeen. His hands were wrapped around the lad’s throat, his middle and ring finger parted to make room for the knife he held at the pulse hammering in the boy’s neck. His lips were drawn back from his teeth like a rabid wolf. 

“Don’t touch that!” he growled before letting the boy go. Despite the incredible amounts of alcohol he’d consumed, Anthony looked rather pale, a sheen of sweat glistening on his cheeks and neck. He retreated from the public's eyes, unsteadily ascending the stairs where the extra rooms were kept, usually for employing the town’s whores. Loki followed him as the crowd was distracted by checking on the child’s bruised neck and demanding the story from him. His fingertips brushed across something wet, and, looking down, he was startled to see blood on the railing. _Perhaps he opened a wound_ , he mused as he followed where the blue light indicated that Anthony had collapsed down at the end of the hallway, fetching up against a wall where his hands scrabbled against his chest. His shirt was a rumpled, bloodstained wad of cloth next to him.

"Anthony? Are you bleeding?" He realized how asinine it was that he’d even needed to ask that question just as the words left his mouth.

Anthony’s response was a wet laugh, and even in the dim lighting he could see a dark liquid trailing from the man's mouth and soaking into his beard. "Sorry, Merlin, but you…you can't help me. Get Nat. She…she has the smallest…hands." His breathing was shockingly labored.

"What have hands to do with it?" he demanded, panic coating his voice. Loki knelt down next to him and put a hand on his shoulder, tilting him slightly so that the man was looking at him. "Stark, if I can help--"

"I told you, your hands…are too big. I need a…a woman's hand." He sounded like he was gargling and speaking simultaneously; his words were thick and muttered, making him hard to understand. Loki was straining his ears to hear him. " _Go_."

"Damn it, Anthony Stark,” he spat, “you don't sound like you'll make it if I do. If my hands don't fit I'll use my magic. Now tell me _what to do_!" He realized he was shouting as his voice echoed back at him and he bit his tongue. Anthony sighed, attempting to straighten from his slouch. From the way he grunted and slackened back against the wall, he decided it had been a bad idea.

"The case." he whispered, and pointed to his chest. He was beginning to sweat profusely, thick droplets running down the contours of his face and dripping off his chin like rainwater off a thatch roof. "That damned boy…he shoved it in. It's too…too far in."

Loki leaned closer to investigate after watching Anthony’s face for a moment, silently asking permission and boundaries. What he was staring at, he realized with a sickening nausea that caused his stomach to heave, was a glass case embedded in his chest, between his pectorals and just over his heart. Inside the transparent walls was something fleshy and throbbing, which, Loki realized, was the source of the ethereal turquoise glow.

"It's pressing on my…my heart." His voice was barely a breath; the kid had unintentionally tried to kill him. No wonder Stark had pulled a blade on him. "You have to…get it off. But don't pull it out. You'll…you’ll kill me that way, too."

"Right." he said, tightening the hand on the other man's shoulder for support and hoping that the anxiety in his tone was perceived only by his own ears. "Tell me when." He held his hand over the container; it was warm, and Loki’s hand trembled. He couldn’t hesitate, though, it the strange greenish tinge that slowly crept up the man’s hair jaw was anything to go by. Slowly he let his magic wrap around it, imagining tiny little glowing green fingers were holding it carefully. Moving his fingers like he was working a marionette, he carefully and slowly began to slide the box forward. It moved like it was stuck in quicksand—slowly, jerkily, and at times Loki was sure he’d pulled to hard—but it moved at his command. As the glass contraption eased off of his heart Anthony's breathed began to sound fuller and less labored. The blood that oozed from his chest stopped, and he beckoned with the wave of a hand that it was enough. He exhaled with a big sigh, and began to laugh as Loki lowered his hand, releasing his ethereal hold on the object.

"Thanks, Sparky." he gasped between giggles. Loki, his head buzzing with leftover adrenaline, began to laugh with him. He fell against the wall, one hand resting on his thigh, the other collapsed limply onto the wooden floor beneath them.

“You do this often?” he shot back, and they both dissolved into uncontrollable fits of laughter that Loki blamed in equal parts on the rush of fear and the copious amounts of alcohol consumed by both parties. It was how the rest of the team found them, chortling and gasping for breath and Tony still covered in his own blood. Natasha muttered something in a language Loki didn’t recognize, rolling her eyes but unable to hide the smile on her red-painted lips.

“Worried for nothing, you sons of bitches.” Clint chuckled.

That last line sobered Loki better than any potion or spell he knew of. Clamping his teeth down onto the inside of the corners of his mouth, Loki stood, muttering something about a headache, and left the rest of his team frowning disapprovingly at the archer. He needed rest, he decided as he collapsed onto the straw mattress, which was too small and left his feet dangling in the cold air. He rolled himself over and ducked them underneath the woolen blankets. His legs were tucked against his chest, holding onto every bit of warmth contained within his body. 

Of course he’d forgotten. He’d been distracted with the feeling of belonging somewhere again, of being worked like the serving lads back in Asgard and having to adapt to not being a top point of authority and the like. He had a castle to take back, a father to avenge, and—most importantly—a brother to find. He wondered if Thor would recognize him after fifteen years. Would Loki know his brother by sight? He assumed he would. Thor had always been big and loud and hard to miss.

“Son of a bitch.” he whispered to himself. “You’ve no idea, Barton.”

*

Farbauti was getting angry now. Loki had been gone for almost seven months, and even with her men out roaming the forests he hadn’t shown up, not even a trace of his pathetic magicks. Of course, since the strange powder had appeared, she was wasting her energies to send her familiars throughout the woods instead of her Jotun forces. Several of them had to be put down because of the madness it induced, and many more had committed suicide to ease the nightmares they claimed they saw. Unable to repair the windows her men had thrown themselves from, their sills had simply been boarded up against the elements. 

She began to wonder if Loki was in the forests at all. Perhaps he’d been picked up by a stranger, or simply died? No, that wasn’t possible. Her mirror told her every day, had been telling her, that Loki was alive. "A child in these lands, of your blood and bone, will rise come he of age, and take your throne." It spoke these words to her every day when she asked. It didn’t even bother to call her beautiful any more. She cursed and snarled and beat at the glossy surface, though she knew the enchanted glass would not break. It couldn’t break, and she took care afterwards to kiss it and apologize to it for her abuse. It was that man’s fault, she decided. That bastard runt she’d given birth to and left to die. He should have perished instead of being taken in by the cursed King of Asgard. What had been going through his mind, she’d always wondered. In the midst of battle, of slaughtering Jotuns like a farmer cuts down his wheat, he had dismounted his horse and picked up her abandoned child and taken it home to his castle. 

She amused herself with thoughts of him realizing the mistake he made as he saw the boy grow up. Did he fear that the boy was simply a later bloomer, and that he would grow twice the size of the son he’d sired and kill him? Did he fear Thor ever getting so angry with his brother that he’d carelessly and angrily reveal to Loki his true heritage? To go even a day without looking upon the child in anxious fear would have been foolish of him. Perhaps that was why it was so easy for her to sneak in to Asgard after all?

Her inner musings were interrupted by the entrance of one of her knights. He looked mildly frightened, drumming his fingers on his knee as he approached her throne and knelt before her.

“Speak!” she barked harshly, relishing for a moment in the way he flinched before looking up at her.

“My lady,” he began with a tremor in his voice that he futilely tried to remedy by clearing his throat. “We were ambushed again.”

“‘Again?’”

“It was that wretched Prince.” he stammered quickly, rising once again to his feet. “He and his clan were waiting for us. They attacked and…I myself barely made it back, My Queen.”

Farbauti stood, her black and cobalt skirts flaring around her feet as she stepped closer to the giant and grabbed his throat in one hand. He gurgled as his airway was closed with a rather strong hand, one of his own latching instinctively onto her wrist. He couldn’t do anything against her power. She dragged him into an uncomfortable crouch, her face inches from his. She knew by the way his eyes widened that he could smell the rotten-coppery fragrance of blood on her breath. The body still hadn’t been dealt with.

“You might as well have _died_ with them, you pathetic whelp.” she growled, and shoved him to the floor. “I need more girls, and there are none here that are old enough. Go back to the previous kingdom. Surely I didn’t kill everyone. Bring me every young woman you can find.” She watched with some satisfaction as he scrambled to his feet before dropping down to kneel before her. Farbauti glowered at the knight's back as he retreated from the throne room, rubbing his neck as if he needed to assure himself it had not been mortally wounded in any way. She secretly wished she had, to release at least a portion of this rage and anxiety. This had all started with that boy. Well, he had to be a man now. She'd made one mistake—a minuscule little thing—and now here it was, laughing in her face and screaming out to her that her time was almost up. She strode to her window in a cool swishing of dark silk skirts, resting her hands on the cold carved stone. Huts, or what remained of them, still stood to house the few Asgardians that remained from her reign. The bluish, bruised-colored clouds in the sky above promised a cold and heavy rain. And, closing her eyes to this scenery, the young man's face came back to her mind, the sun-darkened prince's face covered in his own blood and creased from pure hatred. 

"The next time I see you," she growled to the damp air, "I shall make sure that hole in your chest goes all the way through."

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

They passed over the gate of the ruined kingdom with wary thoughts and watchful eyes. Smoke rose from inside the broken walls of the outer homes, the smell of ignited sulfur still heavy in the rain-dampened air. Fandral wrinkled his nose disapprovingly, but said nothing, turning his gaze instead to the horizon before them.

"Thor!" Sif cried from behind them, and he heard her horse shriek. The shock and horror mingling in her voice caused his hand to fly to his hammer as he jerked his reins and turned his steed around. Sif was perfectly safe, her hand covering her mouth to hide the open gape of disbelief. Thor himself felt his body slacken at the gruesome sight. He had mangled Jotuns himself before killing them, but they always made sure to torch the dead, collecting pieces and limbs into a large bonfire. Never had he ever thought to gut the creatures, nail their corpses to a wall, and write "Death to the Frozen Ones" in their blood. Just the sight of it made his stomach turn, and he had to look away. 

"There is blood underneath the nails." Hogan reported solemnly, sounding nauseas himself; he turned his eyes away from the sight. "It was alive."

"Oh Gods." Sif gasped, and spurred her horse out of sight. The men pretended they did not hear the sounds of her horror-induced sickness as she returned to them, her face a pale shade of green. She wiped at her mouth, looking a bit shameful as Thor offered her a canteen of water and kept his face placid. They trekked on. To most people the broken city looked dead and uninhabitable. But Thor and his men were looking for signs of life, and they found them in abundance, this time knowing what exactly to look for. Trampled grass, spatters of blood and handprints in the dirt-coated walls.

"Don't move!"

The shout echoed around them, it's source undetectable in the thick air. Thor gestured for his steed to halt, holding his hands up in a gesture of no ill-wishing. "I am Thor Odinson, rightful King of Asgard. I have not come to hurt anyone."

There was a pause as his echoing baritone died in the air. Then a dark-clad man stepped from around the fountain, holding a crossbow pointed at them. Thor was not an expert in weapons, but the archery tool looked odd even to him. It had an extra piece added on to the side that looked like a small trough. Arrows were packed inside of it, with a small piece clutching the tail of one of the thin projectiles. One arrow was notched against the tautly drawn string and pointed directly at him. The man wore a mask that covered all but his wide, dark eyes. Those eyes watched each of them in turn before closing a latch on his arrow holder and lowering the weapon. He pulled his mask off, revealing a dark brown face creased with worry.

"We heard of you," he said as Thor carefully dismounted.

"Why have you done this?" he asked, gesturing back to the pathway down which they'd come. He knew from the way the man's eyes narrowed that he understood what he was asking.

"It keeps those bastards away. We can barely handle them, and we have women and children to protect here." He gestured around them, despite the apparent desolation of the place.

"That is why we are here. We heard rumors that there were survivors of the fall of the Stark Empire."

A smile ghosted across his mouth. "Yeah. We're living. If you can even call it that. Come with me, and we'll try to feed you and your beasts."

"We thank you." Thor turned to his men and nodded for them to follow. The other ten men with him—his wife included—each descended from their saddles and followed him through the streets, hands clutched tightly around the reins of their horses. Their guide armed his crossbow, holding it up so that the arrows didn't fall from their awkward perch. Eventually he led them (and their horses) down into a large tunnel that led underground, by the sharp incline that they fought to stay upright on. Fandral muttered to Volstagg about not trusting the man. But Thor plainly ignored it. He was instead distracted by the lighting system of the tunnel. Instead of torches, small wooden troughs ran down the length of the walls, large enough maybe for a flock of hummingbirds, that were filled with what looked like oil that had been set aflame. The intricate system left the tunnel brilliantly lit at every corner. 

"Incredible." he mused, unaware he'd spoken until the man before them laughed quietly.

"Our Prince's own invention." he said, nodding toward them like a proud mother. "He never liked torches. ‘It's too spotty, Rhodey,' he said to me, ‘easy for assassins and the like to hide in the shadows.’ So he came up with this. He was about twelve, I think." Rhodey turned to loon at them and laughed at their mingled expressions and disbelief and amazement. "Yeah, his father made that face too. But our Prince was quite the scholar. Made weapons mostly." He held up his crossbow. “Like this one; it’s automatic. It reloads, restrings, and shoots all by itself. All I have to do is pull and hold the trigger.” His finger twitched over the curved piece to emphasize.

“Really? And how does it do that?” Fandral asked, setting himself between Thor and Rhodey at the sight of the weapon being waved haphazardly in his leader’s direction. As if he knew this, Rhodey smirked, shoulders trembling with silent laughter.

“Mechanics. Something you Asgardians had never accepted before. It knows what to do because that’s how it was designed. Also, when the cover is on the arrow hut, it can’t shoot. The trigger locks.” His finger twitched along the curved piece to demonstrate, causing Fandral to flinch and reach for his weapon. “But your reflexes are quick. I’m impressed.”

Thor turned to look over his shoulder at Sif, who was pulling him back. “I can’t tell if he’s mocking us.” she hissed, eyes locked onto their guide as the pathway leveled out. “Are you sure we can trust him?”

“Not completely,” he admitted, “but at the moment we need as many allies as we can.” 

“Rest assured, Your Highness, we can help. But we need something from you first.” Rhodey opened the wooden door before them, waiting for the party to pass before shutting it tightly and slamming the bolts into place. Thor looked around, amazed at how much construction of the underground city had progressed since the kingdom’s destruction only twenty years ago. Houses were carved into the stone, many only accessible by rope ladders. Larger ones, obviously used for more governmental purposes, surrounded a large plaza through which children ran and musicians played stringed instruments and metal buckets. Couples danced in a perfectly choreographed circle, dirty skirts flying and shoes tapping and kicking up dust. More of the lantern troughs ran along the walls, illuminating the colony almost as well as the sun would. "We need your help as much as you need ours." Rhodey continued walking, skirting around the dancing and singing crowd that either didn't notice them or refused to acknowledge their presence at all. Thor didn't feel too insulted by it; he knew that them coming here could mean an end to their otherwise peaceful lives beneath the earth.

Rhodey led them to a hutch, a small building with only a dirty brown tarp to serve as a separation from the outside. Thro assumed it was an infirmary of sorts, if the pained moans and crying coming from within were anything to judge by were anything to judge by. He shoved the tarp aside, gesturing that they should follow. Inside it was sparsely lit, only a couple lanterns providing any source of light. Many people, mostly men, were laying two to a bed, flushed and fevered and in pain. Some suffered from infectious battle wounds, others with sicknesses that left them with only a few hours. Rhodey, however, bypassed all of them, leading them further inside the makeshift hospital. He stopped before a bed in the back, its occupant isolated from the rest of the patients by a thick green sheet, which he pushed aside. He lowered his weapon to the stone beneath his feet and I knelt by the side of the cot.

"Hey, Pepper." he whispered to the unconscious woman, taking a dainty, pale hand in his. Thor leaned over to look around the man's shoulder, eyes widening when he saw the young woman. She had beautiful strawberry hair that was plastered flat to her forehead and neck with sweat. It was all pushed to one side to keep it from the blackened skin and blisters, the skin on her neck and chest taking on a waxy sheen. "It's only a few hours old." he said. There was desperation in his voice, a genuine fear for the woman's life. "Please, if you can help her. We know you have found an ointment to the Jotun's frostbite."

"We have. Fandral?" Thor asked. Before the man's name was out of his mouth he had already disappeared around the flap, fetching the stores of the gummy paste they always kept on hand. "Is this your price for your aid?"

"Yes," Rhodey didn't turn to look at him, his hand clutched tightly around Pepper's. "You teach us how to make the stuff and house as many of us as you can, we help you fight the Jotuns."

Thor took a moment to look over his friends' faces for any sort of argument as Fandral returned holding a thick clay jar in his hands. Sif, surprisingly, took it from him. This shocked everyone, even Fandral, who didn’t move to stop her.

"It's on her chest. Perhaps it is best if a woman administer it." she said thickly. Rhodey nodded, standing and ushering the men from the tent. 

"I cannot tell you what it means to have you as an ally." Rhodey had not stopped to retrieve his crossbow, Thor noticed, as he extended his hand to the other man. "I haven't felt this hopeful in a long time."

Thor clasped the other man's hand. His grip was weak, exhausted. He wasn't made to lead, and having such the responsibility burdened upon him had taken its toll. He looked beyond relieved. To be able to settle a man's heart with just a few words, that made Thor's shoulders hunch slightly. With this agreement, he was more burdened, but it was a weight he'd needed to bear. He could start building his army.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

"Your brother?" Fury asked, looking at him warily—and a slight distrustfully—over the tops of the pages of the letter he had just composed and read over, making Loki wait long enough to speak that he had begun to anxiously wander around the room. "Why bring him up now?"

"I was...distracted." Loki replied carefully, examining a thick leather-bound volume that promised every medicinal herb and its uses was written within its pages. "And, as much as you trusted me, would you really have let me go so easily?"

This made Fury take pause, running his hand over his mouth as he thought over his answer. Loki could see in the way his eye gleamed that he'd been right. Fury wouldn't have trusted him all that time ago when he'd first come to the fortress. 

"To be honest, Odinson," he began after a long, tense silence that had Loki wandering again, "I'm not sure if I trust you still. You've prove yourself valuable to my forces. You've not failed a mission nor lost a man, even when sent out without Stark. But that doesn't mean I trust you enough to let you wander off on your own, knowing the exact location of our hideout and with perfect knowledge of who runs what."

"You say that like you believe I am going to sell you out to the Jotuns!" Loki snapped exasperatedly, throwing his hands out to emphasize his point.

“I don’t believe that. But you know the location of our headquarters, and we can’t just let you free with that information.” He stood, folding the letters before striking a match and lighting the red candle on the far end of his desk. “I figure it’s a good idea to tell you this now, before you try to leave on your own, but since you started going on missions with Stark he’s gotten better about behaving.”

“Behaving?” Loki repeated bewilderedly, watching as the man dripped the red wax across the folded edges to seal it. 

“Yeah. In case you haven’t noticed, he’s kind of….” Fury paused to press his ring as a seal into the melted wax. The symbol was an F surrounded by flames. It made Loki laugh sometimes, considering the name it represented. “Well. Volatile. Rash. He’s gone rouge on more than one occasion, and while I can understand that he’s used to being charge, he’s always had a problem with directly following orders. He says that he’s not a soldier, and he refuses adamantly when someone tries to disagree.” He slid the letter aside to let the wax cool and looked back up at Loki again. “When Stark starts behaving, I know something’s up. Either he accidentally killed someone and I haven’t heard about it yet, or he’s taken a liking to you.”

“And you expect me to care about that?”

“I do.” 

“Care to explain your reasoning?” 

Fury sat back and looked at him, cocking his eyebrow. He wasn’t sure if it was supposed to be in surprise or contempt. He smirked a bit to himself, noting the way the other man’s eyes narrowed. 

“You don’t know him that well.” Fury said. “So I can’t. But just watch the way he is when he’s around you. It’s startlingly out of character for him. In fact, you should do something that’ll really please him. Make him really happy. You’ll see it then.” He waved his hand. “Go on, then. I’ll think about it.”

Scowling, Loki turned without offering the usually respectful head bow and exited the office. He was angry, breathing hard from a lack of releasing the sudden onslaught of emotional tension. He thought of blasting another hole into the walls in the dungeon, but then remembered how just a bit of shock had activated his curse and turned Banner into that green beast. He hadn’t been responsible for the first time it had happened, and he didn’t want to actually be the reason for it now. So instead he crossed his arms and entered the mead hall. It was dinner time, the great hearth alive with flickering orange flames. The mercenaries and their families were gathered around the tables where freshly roasted beasts were spread out amongst the other dishes. It was the third time Loki had ever seen children within the fortress, being raised among blades and war stories. Much the same as he was, now that he thought of it. Much of his childhood was spent curled up next to his father and listening to the tales of battle while his brother felt fit to act them out. Never with him of course. Frigga had always said he was too young for any roughhousing.

“You look sad.” Anthony had managed to sneak up on him, surprising him with a heavy hand on his shoulder. “C’mon, Sparky, stop brooding and let’s eat. I think I’ll let you sit with us today.” 

“Oh, how gracious of you.” Loki retorted, smirking as he stepped over the bench and sat next to him. Natsha, Clint, and a tall blond man who had introduced himself as Steve just a few weeks ago were across from them, plates nearly full and mugs half-drained. “And how many times must I ask you to please refrain from giving me nicknames?” 

“It’s how I keep things lively,” he retorted, ripping the back leg off of a large, golden-skinned turkey.

“You’ll get used to it.” Steve said, using a clean knife to cut off strips of the healthier white meat of the breasts. Natasha was quietly stealing off of his plate and moving the food to her own. Clint stole from her in kind. He assumed it was just another thing the knight had gotten used to. 

“If you’re going to give me a nickname, _Tony_ , at least make it sound better.” he said, and immediately regretted the use of his nickname as he actually stopped talking for a moment. Even the others across the table paused, looking for some reaction from the blacksmith. 

But then Tony smiled. It wasn’t the big shit-eating grin that had become something of a trademark to the smithy, and it didn’t last as long as he would have expected. Loki missed the next few words coming from that happy mouth because of exactly those small details. Tony looked like he’d finally conquered something, like he’d worked so hard for Loki to use such a familiar title and was satisfied that his efforts had finally paid off. It was a small smile, and the sight of it scared him.


End file.
